Lightning claws out
of the black inevitability of night
like the twisted hands of the dead forking
for what is here and alive.
The thunder is no warning but a battle cry
as shoots of hands spawn into flailing arms
and here I am, a helpless plated morsel
with walls shaking like guts in turmoil.
Moments before there was nothing, just time as always
until the racketing dead kicked life
into a heaving panic-attack frenzy
like a shock to the chest
in a sterile hospital bed.
So the sky crumbles,
a grave ripped to shreds from the depths,
and only with each flashing hand and arm
does it all become clear, yet unknown
as the void between inhale and exhale.